


Stay Awake

by pandoras_chaos



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, BAMF John, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, M/M, Minor Violence, Oral Sex, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-06 22:08:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1112070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pandoras_chaos/pseuds/pandoras_chaos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock can feel the tenuous threads of this conversation shuddering under the strain of all the unspoken words. His eyes narrow as he gazes up at John, noting the residual tension in his shoulders, the dark circles under his lower lids, and the way he is avoiding Sherlock’s eyes like a bi-polarized magnet. He knows John Watson inside and out, like the perfectly balanced coils and gears of a beautifully balanced grandfather clock, and yet John keeps <i>surprising</i> him. It’s uncanny, the way he keeps on being so utterly and wonderfully unpredictable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stay Awake

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cleflink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cleflink/gifts).



> Written for the wonderful and talented cleflink for the Holmestice winter 2013 exchange.  
> Epic thanks to my lovely beta, thesmallhobbit, for taking the time out of her holiday to help me with this little project, even when it grew into twice the size I promised her it would be :D You’re the greatest! Title borrowed from London Grammar.

**Stay Awake**

 

 

Sherlock hears the bomb two seconds after it actually detonates. The concussion of the blast is deafening and he hits the ground hard, a knee pressed insistently into the small of his back, firm but gentle fingers shoving at the nape of his neck: John Watson shielding him against the cold concrete with his own body. Sherlock can feel the heat of John’s chest, heaving against his back as he shudders, the shock of the noise ringing in his ears, even as his mind spins nearly out of control.

After the initial dust settles, he moves to rise, but John holds him down, pressing against him from arse to shoulder, and shifts to lift his own head instead. There's an instant round of gunfire, and Sherlock feels John tense even as he ducks, muscles in his shoulder flexing so quickly, Sherlock actually misses when exactly he twists his arm free and takes two perfectly aimed shots, felling one gunman instantly and earning a cursed cry from the other.

"Damn," John mutters and straightens slightly. Sherlock is captivated. John is all precision movements and hard edged danger. He holds the illegal Sig as though it is a part of his fucking arm, and when he moves, it's grace and power; the good, kind doctor giving way to the perfectly honed soldier in an instant of blinding brilliance.

Sherlock is mesmerized. He can feel his own body’s reaction to John’s perfect stillness: his heart pumping harder, thudding against his ribs as though trying to escape, his pupils dilating and turning the rest of the world dimmer around the edges, his senses sharpening to drink in more of this extraordinary man. He can feel his pulse racing; redistributing blood into erectile tissue and making his head spin with the ferocity of it all.

“Stay down,” John growls, and Sherlock feels his abdomen tense as hormones and adrenaline war for his attention. John’s voice when he’s like this makes all the hairs on the back of Sherlock’s neck rise, and makes him wonder things he absolutely shouldn’t, like what his flatmate might sound like in the throes of orgasm. This is undeniably _not_ the time for such a distraction, and he curses inwardly at his traitorous body. He ignores the command, naturally, and slides gracefully to his feet next to John, desperately wishing he had a firearm of his own.

John rolls his eyes and huffs in familiar exasperated acceptance, and throws an arm across his chest to flatten him against the nearest wall. Sherlock can’t help the hitch in his breath when John’s arm stays there, hand splayed possessively right over Sherlock’s pounding heart. He appears not to notice, however. He is focused entirely on the assault and the still conscious gunman who is sure to be either calling for backup, or planning another attack. Sherlock knows he should be focused as well, but finds it impossible to concentrate with John’s fingers flexing against his pectoral, all his muscles tensed and coiled, ready to spring into action at the smallest threat.

Sherlock loves him so much it physically aches.

There's a shout from the end of the corridor, and John's head tilts in the direction of the noise before he glances back at Sherlock, an expression of grim exhilaration sprawled across his features. Sherlock painstakingly grinds his reeling mind to a halt and forces himself to _focus_.

"Ready?" he breathes, deliberately dropping his voice to a low rumble. John jerks his head in what might be interpreted as a shudder, but Sherlock cannot, _cannot_ think about that now.

"When you are," John whispers back, his lips so close to Sherlock's ear he can feel John's breath stirring the curls at the nape of his neck.

Sherlock takes off, wiry legs eating up the distance in long strides. John keeps up with him, gun loaded and pointing protectively at the floor, his trigger finger resting easily over the safety. They are silent as they move: John’s quick feet more than making up for Sherlock’s long legs. They split apart and take either side of a door frame easily, Sherlock nodding once before John breaches the room and cocks his head back at Sherlock in acknowledgement of an ‘all clear.’ Sherlock palms a steel pipe on their way through the next room, hefting its weight restlessly as they dodge around another corner. John nods in approval of Sherlock’s choice and shoots him a wicked grin: the one that makes Sherlock sorry he didn’t know John when he used to frequent his army fatigues.

John must have seen something, because his face darkens dangerously, and he gracefully shifts his weight to his back foot and brings the palm of his left hand up against the butt of his Sig, his right arm a perfectly straight line as he advances into the room. Sherlock cannot tear his eyes away, and he feels his mouth go dry at the sight: Captain John Watson, leading a battalion before his very eyes.

Sherlock is so distracted by the image overlaying his vision that he momentarily loses sight of John as he rounds the entryway, and therefore walks into the room almost completely blind. John suddenly slams into him from the side and Sherlock goes reeling against the wall, his shoulder wrenching at the harsh contact. John invades his space a split second later, just as the fresh gunfire erupts from the end of the corridor.

Sherlock breathes hard, suddenly and acutely aware of the fact that John is pressed bodily against him, the cramped space barely big enough for the both of them. John’s attention is focused once more on their target, but Sherlock can’t see past the wall, nor can he wrest his attention beyond the fact that John’s face is millimeters from his own. It is only their height difference keeping their lips from touching, in fact. As it is, John’s breath is huffing tantalizingly across Sherlock’s open collar, and Sherlock feels the shudder of want travel up his spine without his permission.

John apparently notices the movement and turns his sharp gaze upon Sherlock instead, raising his face a little to see into his eyes. “You alright?” he intones quietly, and Sherlock can only manage a tight jerk of his head, a parody of agreement as his heart pounds wildly against his ribcage. John’s eyes flicker briefly to Sherlock’s lips, and his own part seemingly of their own volition, his pupils dilating gradually, and Sherlock is lost.

He leans forward slowly, his body feeling as though it’s suspended in thick molasses, lips hovering a breath away from John’s. John’s eyes drag up his face and lock on his, a myriad of want and desire stamped so clearly across his features Sherlock nearly laughs in relief. He can taste the anticipation, the knowledge that this has been coming for years, and now that the time seems finally here, he can only marvel at the reality of the situation. He nudges forward before he can overthink it and settles his mouth against John’s.

John’s lips are soft and pliant against his, gentle in a way Sherlock never imagined they would be. It is just a simple brush of lips, barely more than a linger, but it shoots through Sherlock like a harpoon to the gut. The moment stretches between them, incredibly still and impossibly innocent, the world around them seeming to dim as Sherlock pushes forward again, firmer this time, and captures John’s bottom lip between his own.

The ricochet of the bullet is entirely unwelcome, and John jerks away, his arm straightening and the bullet exiting the chamber so quickly, Sherlock barely has time to blink. He hears the echoing cry from their assailant, sees the way John’s body tenses and then finally relaxes as he registers the damage he’s inflicted. John’s mobile is in his hand seconds later, the ringing tinny and loud in Sherlock’s ears, close as they still are in the cramped hallway.

Sherlock hears Lestrade pick up on the other end, hears the words John says in response, knows he must be relating their location and details of the chase, but he cannot seem to shake himself out of this stupor. The ringing noise seems to have continued after Lestrade picked up, and Sherlock’s brain feels like it’s stuffed with cotton wool. He shakes his head a little as though to clear it and John raises a practiced eyebrow at him, clearly taking in his strained expression and deathly pallor. John rings off a moment later, tucking his phone into the pocket of his denims before he clicks the safety back on the Sig and settles the warm metal into the waistband at the small of his back.

Sherlock’s brain seems to be moving at half speed, and he realizes a full minute later that John is saying something to him. The ringing in his ears is overwhelmingly loud and he notes that John looks worried now, small creases folding into his forehead as he reaches forward, bracketing Sherlock’s face in his hands.

The instant John touches him, it’s as if someone turns the sound back on full blast.

“Christ, Sherlock, are you alright?” John is asking, looking more concerned than the situation merits.

“Fine, John. I’m fine,” Sherlock croaks, his voice sounding harsh and disused in the stillness of the old building. John’s mouth tightens and he runs his fingers through Sherlock’s fringe, pushing the curls back off his forehead and tipping his head into the light to check his pupils.

“Sorry,” John says once he’s evidently convinced himself Sherlock is well. “I probably shouldn’t have taken that shot quite so close to your head.” He smiles a little wryly, “I didn’t think about how much the noise would echo.”

Sherlock nods vaguely and tries to ignore how soothing John’s fingers are against his temples; how the space between them seems to crackle and spark with a new sort of tension he’s not entirely sure he’s comfortable with. It takes too long, the moments stretching between them into long minutes of charged inactivity before Sherlock finally blinks. He hears the crunch of tires along the gravel outside and pulls himself away just as the outside door bangs open. John stares up at him for a moment, a hard and blazing look in his eyes before he turns to greet the Yard, his familiar and jovial doctor face sliding firmly back into place. Sherlock misses the soldier instantly.

He blusters his way through his deductions to Lestrade, wanting nothing more than to get home and _think_. John stands next to him as he explains, innocent and amiable again, and Sherlock notes the occasional _brilliant_ and _amazing_ spattered among his words, but he can barely hear above the roar in his own mind. He needs to analyze this latest development with John. He needs time to revise all of his previous theories; to examine all the angles and have perfect understanding of this fragile new arrangement before he acts any further. It is a dangerous path he is treading now, one that might lose him John entirely, and that is completely unacceptable.

The taxi ride home is strained and miserable. Sherlock feels like he’s somehow out of sync with London tonight; as though he’s thrown a wrench in the thrum of his life and he’s now hovering terrified at the edge of a great swallowing chasm. He glances briefly at John, his chest seeming to cave in on itself as he sees John is staring out the window of the car, seemingly untroubled by the evening’s events. Sherlock’s whole _universe_ has changed, and there John Watson sits: calm and steady as ever, as though nothing in the world has altered in the slightest. Though Sherlock notes, with a bit of self-satisfaction that John’s left hand is completely steady, a sure sign that he’s feeling at least some sort of strained adrenaline, even if he’s successfully hiding it from his face.

It is beyond awkward when they arrive at Baker Street, as though the simple act of coming _home_ , to this undeniably intimate setting has thrown them both. John lingers in the entry way, doggedly unlacing his shoes and lining them up in perfect straight lines with the rest. He clears his throat with a flush and suddenly won't meet Sherlock's eyes. 

"Well," he starts after what seems like ages. "I'm for bed."

John turns on his heel and marches up the stairs, leaving Sherlock empty and aching in the hallway behind him. The door to John’s room closes with a soft snick of fastenings and Sherlock allows himself to sag to the floor, the weight of the day settling along his shoulders and pushing him physically to the ground.

He eventually rouses himself long enough to unfold his tingling legs and sit properly on the second to last stair, gazing unseeingly at the opposite wall as though it might possibly hold any answers to the questions in his head. If he’s honest with himself, Sherlock has known this to be coming for a long while now. It has really only been a matter of time before one of them cracked. He’s slightly disconcerted that it was him in the end, but he supposes John is an idiot after all, so it’s not really all that surprising.

With that reassuring thought, Sherlock stands and divests himself of his coat and scarf, hanging them on the peg behind the door right next to John’s. It feels right somehow, that his coat should lie against the wallpaper in such proximity to John’s slightly battered jacket. He can still taste the lingering hint of _John_ on his lips, and allows the remembered feeling of warmth and comfort take him to bed.

: :

Sherlock shifts restlessly against his mattress, chronic insomnia tugging at the edges of his awareness yet again. He’d actually managed a solid two hours before he woke with a start, the lingering feeling of John against him in that cramped corridor keeping his brain from resting fully. He can hear John turn in his bed above him, old bed springs and older floorboards squealing in protest of the movement. Just the fact that he is aware of John here, in the flat, is enough to calm him marginally. It’s not enough to still his mind, however, and Sherlock rolls onto his side, frustration and exhaustion making him twitchy and irritable. He lies there for another quarter of an hour, desperately trying to will himself to sleep, but he knows it is futile.

Groaning in resignation, Sherlock swings his legs off the bed, tugging his dressing gown over his pajamas as he moves quietly into the sitting room. It’s gone two thirty and the familiar hush of early morning has settled gently over London. Sherlock switches the kettle on and strides restlessly to the window, leaning his forehead against the cool glass and watching the lonely taxis troll along Euston Road. None of his current experiments are in any stages where he can do anything useful, and there aren’t any unsolved cold cases lingering on the coffee table. He thinks fleetingly of his violin, but dismisses the idea almost instantly. John has had a very difficult day, and denying him his well-deserved rest seems like a punishment he absolutely doesn’t deserve.

Sherlock catches his thoughts just as they reach that precipice, startled to realize this is not even the first time he’s altered his behavior for his flatmate. It’s a novel realization, even if it has become genuine practice as of late. The kettle clicks off with a soft burble of boiled water, and Sherlock turns automatically towards the kitchen, pulling down John’s box of chamomile without even glancing at it. He is so distracted by John’s very presence in his mind that his body is working on autopilot, pouring the water into two mugs before he remembers it’s the middle of the night, and John is rightfully asleep.

Sherlock sighs again and puts one mug on the mantle, leaving it to cool in case he’s too lazy or (hopefully) too busy to make more later. He will inevitably forget all about it come morning, and John will complain about him collecting crockery in inopportune places all over the flat. Sherlock’s mouth twitches at the corners at the thought of John’s familiar exasperated expression, and he feels a pang of longing squeeze around his ribs like an iron band.

Suddenly it seems absurd that he should be sequestered down here, without John, rather than nearer the man. Sherlock sips idly at his mug and contemplates the merits of forgoing propriety again, and decides that he can ignore social constrictions when it comes to John. He doesn’t intend to wake him, after all, just watch him sleep for a bit, if for no other reason than to shake the loneliness chipping away at his carefully constructed veneer. 

Setting his half empty mug on the worktop, Sherlock moves silently towards the stairs, feet automatically shifting his weight around the noisy floorboards and skipping the third step by practiced habit. He pushes John’s door open softly and slides into the darkened room, pausing just inside for a minute to allow his eyes to adjust to the dimness.

John is asleep in his bed, muscles in his legs tensing as he dreams, eyelids flickering rapidly back and forth as his body cycles back into REM. Sherlock knows he shouldn’t be here, staring at his flatmate as he sleeps at three in the morning; knows John would probably object if he were to wake, but the temptation is proving far too difficult to ignore. John is just so unfailingly interesting, even when he’s unconscious, and Sherlock finds the allure far too easy to follow. He is fairly certain he’s addicted to John Watson, and Sherlock is not one to kick habits easily. He leans heavily against the doorframe, fascinated in spite of himself at this completely ordinary, absurdly captivating man. He can recall with startling clarity the feel of John’s lips against his, and the overwhelming urge to press nearer to John propels him forward a few meters into the room.

John twitches in his sleep, wincing almost imperceptibly as his shoulder wrenches oddly. Sherlock cannot bear to see the slight twinge of pain, so he eases himself silently onto the very edge of John’s bed and, with gentle fingers and soothing low noises, shifts John carefully onto his back. John sighs in contentment and slips back into darkness, eyelids flickering briefly before he falls still.

Sherlock’s chest aches with tenderness, and he smoothes the fringe off John’s forehead. The temptation is overpowering, and before he can analyze it any further, Sherlock leans forward and presses his lips softly against John’s forehead. John mumbles something inaudible and shifts a bit, his hand coming up, fingers closing loosely around Sherlock’s wrist.

Sherlock feels a lump form in his throat: the fear of discovery and the devastating _need_ to stay, tethered as he is to John in this darkened bedroom. His pulse is heavy and loud in his ears, and he wonders idly how John is sleeping through the cacophony. Contrary to popular belief, Sherlock Holmes does in fact have a heart, and it is currently making a valiant effort to escape his ribcage by slamming itself against the bones until he is sure they are about to crack, splinter under the sheer weight of emotion. He is not used to feeling this much, and the head rush is slightly dizzying and fascinating and _new_.

John shifts again, his breath coming in shallower gasps now and his fingers tighten painfully around Sherlock’s wrist. Sherlock feels one split second of remarkable inevitability before he finds himself flat on his back in the middle of the bed, John’s hard face hovering inches from his: eyes wide and feral, a snarl stretching his thin lips. He has Sherlock’s wrist pinned up over his head, small bones grinding together as his other hand pushes up under Sherlock’s jaw, forcing his head back and exposing his vulnerable throat. Sherlock swallows hard against the panic and arousal clogging his thought processes, and he feels his Adams apple scrape across John’s hand. John is clearly not present at the moment, and losing his head is absolutely the wrong way of going about this.

“John,” he says, as calmly as he can with John’s thumb crushing into his windpipe. John grunts in acknowledgement, but his gaze is still unfocused, his palm sticky and slick with cold sweat. Sherlock very carefully and very slowly brings his left hand up, keeping the appendage in John’s line of vision the entire time, and touches his fingertips gently to John’s temple.

“John, come back,” he murmurs, firmer this time, irrationally proud of how steady his voice sounds despite the spike of pure adrenaline and the constriction on his vocal chords. Sherlock deliberately slows his breathing, going limp under John’s body, radiating every indication of submission he can muster. He strokes softly along John’s hairline, watching for the moment when John shivers back into awareness.

John blinks at him in surprise for a moment before he sags: relief, resentment and, astonishingly, _embarrassment_ rolling off of him in waves. Sherlock can only stare up at him, amazed and surprised yet again.

John’s weight settles across his hips as his body relaxes into a less offensive pose. It’s startlingly comfortable, and Sherlock suddenly wonders what it would feel like if he were naked instead, a thought that certainly has no place here in this bed. John snatches his hand back from Sherlock’s throat as though he’s been burned, a look of worry and alarm crossing his features before his face visibly shutters off again. His fingers release their death grip on Sherlock’s wrist and instead he brings his hand up instinctively to his eyes, rubbing the bridge of his nose in familiar exhausted resignation.

“Christ,” he whispers, both hands scrubbing into his eye sockets now. “I’m sorry.”

Sherlock frowns, rubbing at his own throat instinctively. He can still feel the press of John against him; the harsh lines of his body pushed insistently against his own skin, sinking in and leaving trails of fire in its wake. It takes him an embarrassingly long time to work out what it is John has just said. “Don’t be absurd, John. You have nothing to apologize for. The fault is entirely mine.”

John glances up at him briefly, but tears his gaze away almost at once. There’s guilt and embarrassment and something raw edging around his pupils, and Sherlock finds he’s reaching forward again, sliding his palms up John’s legs to rest against his thighs. His thumbs trace unconscious circles against John’s pajama bottoms, the soft flannel worn and threadbare against his skin. It’s such a small movement, but Sherlock feels the warmth of John’s skin beneath the fabric seep all the way up his arms and into his chest, something large and unfamiliar expanding just beneath his solar plexus. John glances up again before his eyes seem to snare on Sherlock’s large hands, resting naturally against his thighs as John straddles him in his bed. The thought is apparently as startling to John as it is to Sherlock, because he blinks absently for a few seconds before tensing again.

“Sherlock, what the hell are you doing? You certainly know better than to sneak up on a former soldier with diagnosed PTSD. I could have seriously hurt you.” John’s voice is sleep-rough and gorgeous, and Sherlock wants _more_.

Instead he says: “You won’t hurt me, John.”

John snorts a little in self-deprecation. “Sure about that, are you?”

Sherlock can feel the tenuous threads of this conversation shuddering under the strain of all the unspoken words. His eyes narrow as he gazes up at John, noting the residual tension in his shoulders, the dark circles under his lower lids, and the way he is avoiding Sherlock’s eyes like a bi-polarized magnet. He knows John Watson inside and out, like the perfectly balanced coils and gears of a beautifully balanced grandfather clock, and yet John keeps _surprising_ him. It’s uncanny, the way he keeps being so utterly and wonderfully unpredictable.

John is hovering still, questions and uncertainty so thick in the air it’s nearly suffocating.

“I trust you,” Sherlock says simply and John’s eyebrows shoot up his forehead. It shouldn’t be all that surprising, really. Of course Sherlock trusts him. The idea that John doesn’t know how much Sherlock relies on him, how much he needs and depends upon him, is completely deplorable.

John sighs and shifts sideways, pulling his body off of Sherlock’s to lie stiffly against the mattress. Sherlock stares up at the ceiling, knowing he should leave, but absolutely abhorrent to do so. He can still feel John’s heat across his thighs, feel the weight and press of him there like a warm blanket. It’s comforting in a way it probably shouldn’t be, but Sherlock has fallen too far to bother with semantics at the moment.

“What are you even doing here, Sherlock?” John asks, tipping his head sideways to glare at the mechanical numbers on his alarm clock. Sherlock knows the precise moment he registers the time, because his face crumples into weariness like a much-folded map. He turns his glare upon Sherlock instead, and Sherlock feels his chest constrict with unfamiliar emotion.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he blurts out before he can stop himself. His voice sounds ragged and desperate, even to his own ears, and he closes his eyes in mortification. He can feel the hateful flush creeping up the back of his neck, and is eternally grateful for the overpowering darkness that is rain-soaked London at half three in the morning.

John’s face is bathed in a slight yellow wash, the sodium glow of the street lamp creeping around the edges of Mrs Hudson’s repurposed curtains. He shifts up to one elbow and stares down at Sherlock, words clearly forming, but dismissed just as quickly as they appear. Sherlock feels the heat suffuse his cheekbones and knows John can see it now. There is only so much indignity he is willing to accept right now, and the idea that John will see, that John will _know_ is too much. Sherlock inhales sharply and moves to stand, shuffling his overly long limbs across the narrow bed, but startles when he feels John’s fingers gently close around his wrist again.

“Stay,” John says softly, and his thumb slides delicately across the slightly bruised flesh. Sherlock’s back is to him, but he can practically taste the hope and uncertainty in the air. It’s choking in its intensity, and his own tentative desire mixed with trepidation is making him feel ill and unsettled.  

“I’m not sure that’s wise,” he mutters, voice rolling out of his chest like a great purring cat. He cannot help the way it lowers around John, the suppressed desire and yearning for something more dropping his tones into a sultry baritone without his permission. He knows what it does to John, can see it all over his face and body when he stands close. Sherlock has used it deliberately before, pushing his advantage with his own body’s betrayal, but he despises it now. This is not the time for such thoughts. It’s never the proper time, and that’s half the problem, Sherlock realizes.

John’s thumb stills and Sherlock holds his breath, willing his racing heart to calm, and wondering desperately at how he’s managed to fuck this all up so spectacularly. John will never let his guard down again, will never _trust_ him again, and that will be so much worse than living without him full stop.

He feels the bed dip, weight redistributing across the old mattress as John comes to kneel behind him, the fingers of his left hand sliding up Sherlock’s arm and pulling the silk of the dressing gown with them. Sherlock shivers and feels the breath catch in his throat. His pulse is so loud in his ears, he can barely hear John’s soft whispering behind him. He seems to be having an internal debate, and Sherlock can feel his own body tensing as he prepares himself to be bodily thrown from the room, muscles and sinew coiling in anticipation of violence.

Instead, John’s other hand comes to rest against the nape of his neck, shorter fingers curling around his collarbone and tilting him slightly so his back rests warmly against the solid plane of John’s chest. They breathe in tandem for a moment, Sherlock’s mind spinning out all the possible outcomes of this scenario when John leans forward and brushes his lips gently against the back of Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock’s brain comes to a sudden and violent stop, thoughts whiting out for a full two seconds before the whole world refocuses in fast-forward. He can feel his pupils dilating as clarity and arousal race to catch up, his body wracking with knowledge and pheromones.

“Please stay,” John whispers, evidently completely oblivious to the fact that Sherlock’s whole _world_ seems to have tilted and realigned.

“John,” Sherlock croaks, and he sounds utterly wrecked. This is completely unprecedented, and Sherlock struggles to calculate and reorganize, his brain seeming simultaneously sluggish and hyper aware.

John seems to realize he’s thrown Sherlock into a complete tail spin, because he gently tugs his arms from the dressing gown and eases Sherlock back onto the bed, fingers soft and exploratory as they map out the contours of Sherlock’s chest beneath his tee shirt. The expression on his face holds such tenderness that Sherlock feels an impossible sob catch at the back of his throat. He squeezes his eyes shut against the onslaught of too much data, worried in the tragic and overwhelming way only he can be, because he knows himself, _knows_ what he will do.

John leans forward and presses his mouth against Sherlock’s, his lips soft and tentative, and Sherlock cannot help the sound that is torn from his chest. He leans into it before he can stop himself, pushing John back and crawling on top of him with a ferocity that is both unexpected and thrilling. John groans against his mouth, and it is the most beautiful sound Sherlock has ever heard. He tilts his head slightly and parts his lips, dragging his tongue insistently along John’s bottom lip until he relents, then it is a battle for dominance: tongues tangling and teeth clacking together in their frenzy.

John makes a noise that can only be described as purely animalistic as he tangles his fingers through Sherlock’s curls, tugging at them with just the right amount of pressure. Sherlock feels his head spin as all the blood in his body seems to redistribute itself to his sudden erection. He grinds his hips forward, instinctively seeking friction, and feels the answering throb of John’s cock against his inner thigh.

Sherlock pulls back with a gasp, all too aware that this is moving indecently fast. “John,” he groans, and loses his train of thought as John’s teeth close around his pulse point and tug. Sherlock can practically feel the capillaries breaking, and notes with astonishment the vague sense of pride when he realizes the mark will show above his shirt collars: a clear stamp of possession that sends a thrill of arousal spiraling through his abdomen.

John’s fingers rake down his spine until he can push them up under the cotton of Sherlock’s tee shirt, the heat and press of them an insistent tug until Sherlock drops his weight fully onto John’s writhing form. He hears snatches of words and phrases murmured into his skin as John gasps, a steady litany of _god yes_ and _finally_ and _so long_ caressed lovingly into his flesh.

Sherlock melts along John’s body, feeling each spot where they touch burn with acute arousal. He is certain he has never felt this out of control before, especially not with a lover. There have been past lovers, whatever Mycroft may think to the contrary, but none of them stand even a chance at retaining his attention, not with John moaning his name as though it’s the most sensual word in the English language. John’s nails scrape hard enough against his back to jolt him back into awareness and he feels his hips stutter as the head of his cock drags along the inside of his pajama trousers, a tease that seems solely designed to drive him absolutely mad.

John is fumbling at his own waist band now, shoving at the fabric with a desperation bordering on frantic, but Sherlock pins him with his own body. The movement makes him pause, and he suddenly registers the screaming warning bells that have been clamoring for his attention these past few minutes. Sherlock pulls back with a gasp, the realization of what’s happening slamming into him with the force of a railway train.

“John, stop,” he gasps, his body protesting loudly as his hips jerk against his control. John arches against the bed once more and tries to pull Sherlock’s mouth back to his, but Sherlock resists. It feels like he’s drowning in sensation: the desire so sharp in his mind it seems to suffocate everything else. Sherlock feels like he’s spinning out of control, all his carefully constructed walls crumbling in the face of such emotion. He feels dread sink unwelcome into his gut and his blood goes instantly cold.

“Stop,” he says again, and something in his voice seems to finally catch John’s attention. He blinks up at Sherlock, his whole body seeming to fight against him as he stills. He looks utterly wrecked: pupils so dilated his eyes seem black, a light flush across his cheekbones and neck, a thin sheen of sweat making him glow in the dim room, but he seems alert now in a way that nearly has Sherlock wishing he hadn’t said anything.

“Sherlock?” he asks, breathless and still panting with suppressed desire. “What’s wrong?”

Sherlock’s eyes close of their own volition. He cannot fathom even beginning to explain to John that what’s wrong is only present in his own head. He feels humiliated and empty: a damaged and unworthy specimen of humanity in comparison to John and all of his righteous humanitarianism.

“I can’t,” Sherlock whispers, his voice suddenly hoarse and shattered. He can’t even open his eyes, knowing the sight of John’s disappointed and unfulfilled expression will destroy him completely. Wearily, he extracts himself from John’s grip, intending to move off, away from John’s room, and perhaps even away from Baker Street. He cannot imagine the idea of leaving John, but to know what he almost had and willingly gave up will be more than he can bear.

“Hey,” John catches him before he can move entirely, strong and capable arms wrapping tightly around his shoulders and holding him in place. “Sherlock, it’s alright,” he says, and there is so much understanding and compassion in his voice that Sherlock nearly chokes on the sob trying to force its way out of his throat.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” John says gently, his fingers running tentatively across Sherlock’s sharp shoulder blades.

“You’re too _good_ , John,” Sherlock whispers raggedly, his heart seeming to tear itself to shreds as he speaks. His body is warring against him, shattered at the idea that he’s willingly giving this up, the warmth of John’s body still seeming to crackle along his skin.

John has gone very still, the dangerous kind of calm he gets before he does something utterly reckless. “I’m not good, Sherlock. Not even close,” he says, his voice flat and rock-steady.

Sherlock feels the dull tones rip through him like shrapnel. John’s hand reaches out and clasps solidly around his, but Sherlock jerks back, afraid of tainting John somehow with his inherent wrongness.

“It won’t be enough, John,” Sherlock growls in desperation, willing John to comprehend. “Don’t you see? I will _consume_ you. It will never be enough. I will tear you open, break you apart, shatter you completely and be unable to put you back together the way you are now. I will mould you into something else, John. I will ruin you.”

John is still for a long time, and Sherlock wishes he would let him up, let him flee with at least a modicum of his dignity intact. Instead, John’s arms seem to lock around his waist, keeping him firmly in place for all his struggling. He eventually goes limp, succumbing to his fate and grimly determined to soak up as much of John’s affection as he can while he’s still allowed to be this close. His heart seems to have stopped entirely, dropping into the space somewhere below his navel.

John begins to stroke his hair soothingly, just light brushes at first, but then his fingers grow firmer, rubbing through Sherlock’s curls and into his scalp, causing an entirely different kind of shiver to run through him. He feels himself relax marginally, John's attention calming him in the way only he can. Sherlock’s mind is still racing, panic still raw and acidic in the back of his throat, but he allows himself to float gracefully on the tides of John’s affection. After what feels like hours, but is in reality only a quarter of an hour at most, John’s hands move down his neck, gently pressing into the muscles bunched with tension there. Sherlock hears himself groan as though from far away, his body relaxing entirely until he’s lying fully on top of John, boneless and warm; a comfort he’s grown so used to aching bittersweet in his chest.

“It’s alright, Sherlock,” John mutters into his hair, pressing his lips gently against Sherlock’s forehead in a way so beautifully intimate, Sherlock feels his heart clench. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Something seems to twist in Sherlock’s chest and he clutches tightly to John, feeling the startled gasp as it travels through his body. He knows he should leave now, back away from John’s room and down the stairs; leave him alone up here before Sherlock can utterly unmake him, but a small, selfish part of him refuses to back down. John belongs to _him_ , and nothing, not even Sherlock Holmes himself is going to stand in the way.

John’s fingers notch under his jaw and tilt his face up, and Sherlock is stunned to see the easy affection and still smoldering hunger burning in their depths. As though he’s frozen in place, Sherlock watches as John leans up and gently swipes his tongue along Sherlock’s bottom lip. It’s at once tender and sensual, and Sherlock feels as though a great shock rocks through his body at the contact. He huffs out a breath and tips forward, chasing John’s lips with his own and demanding more.

The grin John flashes at him is mischievous and playful, and he nips at the swell of Sherlock’s lip. Something snaps in Sherlock and he growls, launching himself forward; unable to stop himself as he crushes down into John’s body, his earlier arousal flaring up his spine like wildfire, all-consuming and desperate in its ferocity.

John’s eyes are fierce, his whole body focused on Sherlock, and Sherlock feels the gaze penetrate his very soul. He cannot help himself as he leans forward and takes a kiss, damning himself, but unable to resist licking into John’s mouth in an unmistakably possessive slide of tongues and teeth. John groans and arches beneath him, body twisting and splaying out, welcoming Sherlock’s weight as he settles himself again on his knees between John’s thighs. Sherlock knows the expression on his own face must be just as vicious, just as _consuming_ , but he can’t be bothered to reel himself back, not with the way John is writhing against the sheets, clinging to the cotton as though his life depends on it.

“Sherlock, _Jesus_ ,” John moans, and his spine curves again, rubbing his leaking cock against Sherlock’s abdomen in search of friction, the exposed glans peeking out from his waistband and leaving a wet smear across his lower belly. “Christ, what are you doing to me?”

He is breathless and breathtaking, and Sherlock feels his own face flush as heat and arousal surge through him so strongly he literally rocks where he is. John groans again, the sound ripped from his chest, primal and needy, and Sherlock cannot help but rise to the challenge. He reaches unerringly into the bedside table and extracts the half used tube of lubricant he knew would be there. John blinks at him in familiar wonder, and his lips quirk at the edge in a wry smile.

“John,” Sherlock starts, impossible uncertainty curling unwelcome and uncomfortable in his gut. John’s smile softens somehow and he stretches up for a kiss, wrapping his hand around the nape of his neck to pull him closer. The kiss this time is less hungry, and Sherlock sinks into it, sliding his tongue against John’s in a way that’s less urgent, and more sensual. The noise that John makes sounds heartbreakingly intimate and Sherlock finds he is whimpering slightly, the sound foreign and confusing to his own ears.

“Sherlock,” John says against his mouth, lips catching softly against the slight stubble on his upper lip. “We don’t have to,” he whispers.

“John,” Sherlock says again, appalled at the idea that his unwanted _feelings_ are showing and in any way deterring John. He allows the heat and hunger to show back through his eyes and feels the smirk as it darkens his face at John’s unconscious shiver of arousal.

“I want—I _need_ you, John,” Sherlock rumbles, his voice inching an octave lower with every solid breath he takes, “Please.” John’s body flushes again at the tone and he nods once, spreading his thighs wider for better access. Sherlock can barely believe he’s being allowed to do this: that this strong, unflappable man who would kill without batting an eye, who has invaded countries and stood up for so many, would lay down for Sherlock. It’s a heady realization, and suddenly the urgency ratchets up a few notches.

“I…” Sherlock starts, unsure for once of what he intends to say. John seems to understand though, their connection so strong even now, and he takes the bottle from Sherlock’s hand.

“It’s OK,” he whispers, opening the cap and spreading some of the thick gel onto his fingers. “We’ll go slow. It’s been a while for me too.”

Sherlock feels the weight of John’s consent fall heavy across his mind, and silently vows to make it all worth it. John’s amused huff of laughter is soft and enticing, and Sherlock realizes he’s been still for far too long. He watches in near disbelief as John nudges him backwards, kicking his pajama bottoms down before spreading his knees wide and planting his heels on the bed.

He is positively gorgeous, and Sherlock feels his heart stutter as John reaches around his thigh and begins spreading slick around his hole. He clears his throat pointedly and nods towards Sherlock, and Sherlock is momentarily lost, all of his brain power shriveling to nothing at the sight of John’s index finger slowly breaching his own body.

“Clothes,” John pants, tilting his hips up for more friction, and Sherlock fumbles to comply. He is all awkward angles and bony elbows suddenly, and he feels as though he’s back in secondary school, unsure and ungainly in his movements. He manages to divest himself of his trousers and tee shirt, practically tearing the cotton in his haste, and unbelievably glad he decided to go without pants tonight.

“God, you’re beautiful,” John breathes, and Sherlock feels an improbable flush infuse his cheeks. He is at a complete loss, floundering and hesitant in his movements. It has never been this difficult, he thinks, but _John_ is significant, and that makes all the difference in the world.

John’s shirt is rucked up around his ribs, all marvelous lines of compact muscle and soft skin, and Sherlock finds his mouth waters at the sight. He suddenly finds it impossible not to touch, and he leans forward to lick a trail up from John’s calf to his inner thigh, feeling the subtle shift of muscle against his tongue as John whimpers at the contact.

He tastes incredible, and Sherlock inhales deeply from the crease of John’s groin, the intoxicating scent of him overriding any and all data Sherlock had ever before collected. John’s hand twitches and Sherlock dips his head to tongue at where John’s fingers disappear into his body. He can taste the musky flavor of John here, even around the slightly clinical taste of the lubricant, and he wishes he had thought to open John this way from the beginning. The noise that John makes as Sherlock’s tongue pushes into him is absolutely sinful, and Sherlock sets out to have _more_.

Sherlock feels his confidence returning with every breathy sigh, with every murmured curse as John removes his fingers, dragging his hand up his torso as he goes and spreading a slick line of lubricant across his left nipple. Sherlock takes advantage of the sudden space and thrusts his tongue into John as far as it will go, fucking into him with long licks that leave John’s legs trembling around his shoulders.

“Jesus, Jesus _Christ_ , Sherlock. Oh _fuck_.”

Sherlock hums in approval and eases one long finger in beside his tongue, unwilling to relent for even a moment. John groans and rocks his hips against the assault, seeking friction that he will not find. Not yet, at least.

Sherlock pulls back to look, instantly replacing his tongue with two more fingers and angling up to brush against John’s prostate. John’s whole body goes rigid, hips arcing off the bed, mouth gaping open around a silent scream. Sherlock feels the predatory grin spread across his lips and leans in to lap at the steady stream of pre-come leaking from John’s cock. The flavor bursts heavily over his tongue, and it suddenly seems absurd that he’s lived this long without the taste of John Watson in his mouth. He greedily sucks at the head, drinking in every drop as it eases from John’s prick.

“Fuck,” John cries. “Stop, Sherlock. Jesus, _stop_. Going to come.” Sherlock sits back reluctantly, the head of John's cock just resting against his lower lip. He is still pumping his fingers lazily and gazing up the length of John's body, watching with fascination as each stroke produces more new information.

“God, just look at you,” John pants, writhing into the sheets and soaked with sweat. “Christ, you’ll be the death of me. You and your bloody oral fixation.”

Sherlock straightens, his mouth sliding off the end of John’s cock with a slick noise. “I don’t have an oral fixation,” he says, slightly offended.

John huffs out a weak sounding chuckle. “With the way you constantly touch your mouth, your smoking addiction—don’t think I don’t know about your secret stash of cigarettes, Sherlock Holmes—and the way you chew the end of biros like they’re god’s gift to nutrition, you sure as hell do.”

Sherlock opens his mouth to protest, momentarily distracted until John clenches down around his fingers. “Is this really the time?” John gasps and Sherlock smirks instead, twisting his fingers to rub against John’s prostate once more and producing a keening whine.

John is in constant motion now, hips undulating and spine arching for more contact. Sherlock can feel his own body's reaction: his pulse thudding so strongly through his veins he can feel his cock throb with every rhythmic beat. He crawls up John's body like a great jungle cat; all lithe grace and barely controlled power, slipping his fingers free to brace both his arms on either side of John's rib cage.

The room seems to vibrate with anticipation and Sherlock dips his head down to nuzzle at John's collarbone, nudging the fabric of his tee shirt aside with his chin. John makes a strangled noise and shoves at him long enough to yank the offending garment up over his head before sinking back against the mattress, gloriously naked and astonishingly beautiful. Sherlock hums his approval into the new expanse of bare skin, ghosting his lips across ribs and muscle before catching his teeth on a pert nipple and pulling.

John goes boneless and utters a groan so deep and gut wrenching it seems to come from his very core, hips twitching and hands scrabbling for purchase. Sherlock grins around a mouthful of skin and breathes in deeply, inhaling the glorious scent of the two of them: all musk and testosterone and heat and sex. Sherlock’s cock is leaking copiously now, untouched and straining as he rubs it into the delicious crease of John’s inner thigh.

“Yes,” John pants, mouth falling open as Sherlock shifts his hips and realigns himself to rub at John’s perineum instead. “Yes, Sherlock. _Christ_ , yes.”

There is a brief moment when Sherlock feels the world still again: everything moving in slow motion as he reaches again into the bedside table for a foil packet, tearing it open and applying it to his cock with a clinical efficiency that might possibly be construed as practiced detachment. Really, it’s all he can do to keep his fingers from trembling. If he thinks too long about what it is he’s about to do, it will be devastatingly over before it begins.  

John is watching him with wide, hungry eyes, his whole body bent in supplication as Sherlock leans forward and slowly eases himself against John’s hole. There’s a momentary pause as they both seem to hold their breath before the very tip of Sherlock’s cock breaches John’s arse and the world seems to narrow to a precise point of blinding pleasure. Sherlock groans and pushes forward in one slow slide of heat and friction. He hardly realizes how deep he is until his balls bump gently into the swell of John’s arse. He holds himself there; still but for his traitorously shaking arms until John’s left hand slides up his shoulder, fingers tangling tightly into the curls at the back of his neck, tugs him down, and devours him whole.

Sherlock pulls his hips back and slams them forward, earning a startled gasp followed by the most pornographic moan he has ever heard. His body seems to take control and before he makes the decision, he’s set a brutal pace; fucking into John in long thrusts that have him arching his spine and clawing scratches down the length of Sherlock’s back. John is so hot, so _tight_ that Sherlock can feel his control slipping away from him faster than he ever thought imaginable.

He realizes with dawning horror that he is dangerously close to coming, and pulls back a fraction, seeking John’s lips with his own and deliberately slowing the pace to something less frantic. John is evidently not having it. His hands drop from clawing at Sherlock’s shoulder blades right down to his arse and tug him forward, wrapping his strong legs around Sherlock’s hips and encouraging him back into a brutal pace.

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock whines, and immediately hates the way his voice cracks without his permission. “John, I can’t—I’m going to—”

“Good,” John growls and takes another kiss, plunging his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth, demanding and possessive and ruthless. Sherlock shivers at the display of overt dominance, and feels his balls tightening. A spark of something dark seems to start at the base of his spine, and he grabs onto John’s hips and yanks him bodily down the bed, pulling him physically onto his cock and taking his pleasure.

John’s eyes grow feral and he howls on the next upstroke, his left hand snaking between them to tug on his cock. It’s easily the most erotic thing Sherlock has ever seen, and he thrusts forward even harder, trying to hit John’s prostate, but too out of his mind with pleasure for accuracy. He can feel his whole body tensing, muscles clenching as his orgasm begins, blinding bursts of heat bordering on pain starting in his groin and radiating out through every pore of his body. His vision greys around the edges and he hears a great rushing in his ears as he comes, body jerking and shuddering, still battering into John with ruthless strokes.

He is dimly aware of John still moving, tight jerks of his wrist and rhythmic clenching of muscles around his now overstimulated cock until John comes with a guttural moan; hot, slick semen splashing between their torsos until John melts backwards against the bed. Sherlock’s arms are trembling with the effort to keep himself upright, and he leans forward to lick at the line of perspiration rolling down John’s neck.

“Jesus Christ,” John pants, a breathless laugh huffed into the space behind Sherlock’s ear. “That was... in _fucking_ credible.”

Sherlock feels the improbable laugh force its way up through his throat, and before he knows it, the two of them are collapsed into each other, giggling and panting against the twisted sheets. John catches his lips in a light kiss that tastes like John’s laughter, and Sherlock feels his heart expand with the knowledge that he can categorize the difference now. He’s fairly certain he will never get enough of John Watson, and that is a thrilling and terrifying thought in and of itself.

“Oh god,” John finally manages, still chuckling helplessly between breaths. “Buggering me after we get home from Scotland Yard as a post-case adrenaline crash. People will definitely talk.”

Sherlock wants to point out that it’s not just the adrenaline, that he wants John all the time, but there’s a sparkle in John’s eyes that tells Sherlock he already knows and is taking the piss. Sherlock leans in and presses his lips to John’s clavicle instead, swiping his tongue along the bone and reveling in the shiver the action produces.

“Let them,” he decides, and dips forward to steal a kiss.

: :

Two weeks later and Sherlock is running again, exhilaration and adrenaline pumping through his veins as he races around the brick siding of the building. He hears John behind him, a half step delay as his shorter legs close the distance between them. The thief they’re chasing has two streets and a blocked alley before he finds himself literally cornered, and Sherlock is buzzing with the thrill of the chase.  He hears the telltale click as John releases the chamber of his gun, checking to make sure he is fully loaded and ready for anything. 

Sherlock's smirk is full of heat and sharp edges, and when he turns it on John, he finds his expression mirrored. 

"Christ, I love you," John mutters before he hauls Sherlock in by his scarf and takes his mouth in a kiss laced with tear gas and razor wire. He can feel the butt of the Sig digging in between his shoulder blades and knows he will sport a bruise there tomorrow. It will make John fuss with medical concern, and preen with testosterone-fueled possessive pride, and Sherlock feels the inappropriate shudder of arousal pool at the base of his spine. 

Their quarry hits the side of the skip loudly and swears, and Sherlock pulls back to quirk and eyebrow at John before taking off, knowing without a doubt that John will be right behind him, following him dutifully into the fray without a backwards glance. His army doctor is not perfect by any means, but he's perfect for Sherlock, and that is a force to be reckoned with. 

 

 

 _I don’t have a skin like you do_

_To keep it all in like you do_

_I don’t have a soul like you_

_The only one I have_

_Is the one I stole from you_

_Stay awake with me. You know I can’t just let you be_

_Stay awake with me. Take your hand and come and find me_

_~Stay Awake, London Grammar_


End file.
